Heat
by MapleleafCameo
Summary: It's too damn hot, but Sherlock knows how to cool John down before things heat up again. For johnsarmylady on her birthday! Pure, absolute smut. Rated M. Johnlock, obviously.


**A/N: This is for the lovely and talented johnsarmylady for her birthday. Not all of you will know this but she is a godsend, a rock and the most wonderful friend a person could have. Thank you my dear, for the hugs, the tears, the handholding, the shoring up and for being with me throughout the dark and the light. I love you.**

**Pure smut. No plot what so ever. I strongly suggest JAL you DO NOT read this in public – & I say that with a very, very naughty & sly wink;)**

**I do not own. I wish I did. Today this is for JAL!**

Heat

The flat was stifling, even with the windows open. A clammy, water drenched breeze attempted to move the curtains, but the air was too heavy. The a/c had chugged its last breath a few days ago and in the midst of a killer heat wave. Anyone withthe ability to repair an a/c had been already commandeered and there were no new units to be had anywhere. The click of an old rotating fan Mrs. Hudson had lent her boys was the only indication that there was supposed to be cool air circulating out of it. It certainly didn't feel any better in the bedroom.

John lay on the bed, not moving. Movement meant the generation of heat. He was suffering terribly from the draining, moisture soaked humidity of a London summer. Having served in Afghanistan, he could take the desert heat. Dry, parched, punishing sun, under the worst adverse, grueling conditions. Add any liquid to it and he was close to being incapacitated, struck down.

He was dressed in nothing but his boxers.

Sherlock sat slouched in the living room. He did not suffer from extremes in temperature. It was just another transport issue to overcome or ignore.But he recognized that John, even though he carried on his work and The Work, even though he continued to trail after Sherlock, would do better once the relentless summer air moved out. Sherlock hated to see John laid low. John should be up and happy and not have to endure anything punishing. He'd been put through enough in his life.

Of course Sherlock being Sherlock, there was a selfish side to his worry. He was also inconvenienced by John's incapacitation. John was needed to make tea and tell Sherlock how amazing he was.

He needed to be seducing the detective.

They had gone from being flatmates and partners to lovers fairly recently. And Sherlock went from 'married to my work' and not interested in sex to 'how about I bend you over this table, John, right here right now' whispered darkly in a certain short, doctor's ear. Sex with John, incredible, passionate, toe curling, earth shattering sex. The kind that made Mrs. Hudson question the noise level the following morning with a sly wink.

Sherlock had become use to a certain amount of love making a certain number of times a week and was rather annoyed that John had been saying no.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" he had asked incredulously the night before when Sherlock had proposed the two of them proceed with their usual every other night romp in the sheets. "Sherlock, I am not going to let you touch me anytime soon. Bad enough the amount of heat I am producing withoutadding you into the mix and two bodies rubbing against each other creating friction. No!"

Sherlock had pouted and slept on the couch. The lack of sex seemed to be the only thing he was distracted by, at the moment.

Thinking it over, he decided there must be away to make John more comfortable and relieve a certain amount of tension at the same time.

Something that would be beneficial for the both of them.

Unquestionably the best idea was to cool things down in order to heat things up.

He set about making plans.

He bustled about the flat, making as little noise as humanly possible, gathered up all of the things he would need to help him seduce the good doctor.

A quick check on the Internet, afew hours later and he was prepared. He quietly slipped into the room carrying the items he would use.

"You are not touching me, Sherlock," came a tired murmur from the direction of the bed. John, unable to sink into a deep sleep, had heard the younger man enter the room.

Sherlock placed the items he carried onto the floor, slipped off his robe and crawled over to his partner, pale chest gleamed in the low levels of light in the room.

"Shh, John. I have brought some things to help you cool down. Just lie back and let me help you. But I want you to do something for me, something that will make this more stimulating. I want you to keep your eyes closed."

With those ominous words, John sat up, leaning back upon his elbows.

"You are _not_ experimenting on me!"

Sherlock smirked and then his face turned serious. "Do you trust me?"

"Ummm, well yes, of course, but…!"

"Then let me try this."

John sighed, "Sherlock…"

But Sherlock placed a finger upon John's lips and hushed him. "Would it be easier for you if I blindfold you?"

John swallowed heavily. Despite the heat, there was something about the way Sherlock spoke, with his deep voice, a voice made for the bedroom and sex. The combination of voice and that particular set of words, caused warmth to pool into his groin.

He couldn't speak, his mouth suddenly dry. Although he still felt a bit cautious about the whole thing, he nodded.

Sherlock reached down and pulled a length of cloth out from the container on the floor. He gently and carefully wrapped it around John's eyes and tied it securely around his head. As the cloth touched his fevered skin, he gasped. Sherlock had recently taken it out of the freezer.

There was an indeterminate wait and he gasped again as cool, moist lips brushed his own. A cold tongue pried between his lips and an ice cube was slipped into his mouth.

He sucked slowly on it while the bed shift and move. He could tell that Sherlock had bent down beside the bed again. He then felt a damp cold flannel gently touch his forehead.

A firm hand was placed upon his chest and he was pressed down into the mattress. The cloth was then run down his neck in slow even movements, followed by trailing fingers of the other man's free hand, fingers that had also been cooled, but built up delicious warmth and longing throughout John. Warmth that didn't sap his strength the way the humidity had but rejuvenated him. John tilted his head back in order to give Sherlock better access. There was a pause and he heard the sounds of the cloth being dipped into water, wrung out and then he gasped a third time as the cloth was swiped down his chest. He shivered, but not from the contact of the cloth. He shivered because he was anticipating where Sherlock would wipe next. He sucked hurriedly to finish off the ice cube, afraid that if Sherlock continued to touch him this way, with cold cloths, he'd be shocked into choking on it.

A hand slipped behind his head and he was carefully raised. A glass was placed against his lips and he opened his mouth. Liquid, cold and quenching, slid across his lips, the fluid running down his throat. There was a hint of lime and maybe mint. As he swallowed, cool lips brushed against his throat. He felt a drip splash onto his chest, as condensation from the glass must have run off. It was surprising but it added to the over all sensation of a body cooling down.

Another shift of movement, more resonance on the air of the cloth being wrung out and more traces, now down his left leg and over to his right.

Pause, drip, and across his stomach.

He breathed out hard and ragged and he rose into Sherlock's touch.

The cloth hit the bowl. There was a slight splashing noise

This time John could feel Sherlock before he actually touched him, almost a sensory awareness, as if a form of echolocation, John's awareness pinging out, bouncing off of Sherlock and registering on his skin. If he believed in auras and psychic energy, he would think they were mixing and mingling. The thought made a breathless moan tumble out of his lips. A firm, loving mouth pressed back down on his and a tongue swept in as if to capture the soundlessness of John's murmur. Hands again, this time at the waistband of his boxers, a finger, slid in, moved slowly, teasingly under the edge. A finger dipped down and touched the top of his hipbone. The strokes of tips of flesh that had been handling icy cloth and cubes of fridged water made John shudder more, then a brief, almost not there, brushing across the front of his boxers, provocative, testing. A shift in the bed and that dark voice whispering in his ear. "What have you been hiding here for me, John?"

Hips lifted and his boxers were removed.

The movement on the bed once again. The sound of something in the metal bowl. _Ice again? _John thought.

John caught his breath and exhaled with a keening sound and an "Oh, god, yes!" as cold wet lips brushed the tip of his cock. There was a slight hesitation and a chill mouth holding something frozen wrapped around the head. He breathed out. What ever it was, it wasn't ice cubes. Too small and round. His thinking skills were skittering around like mice at the sensations coming from his cock. His hands clutched at the sheets as the detective's tongue came out and swiped the length, slowly, maddeningly. There was a pause and John heard the sound of something dropped back into the bowl. And then The Voice was back to his ear. It whispered, "Frozen grapes" the cool sensation of lips and tongue tracing the outer shell of his ear and a wicked, sensual chuckle as he withdrew once more to the sound of the icy fruit slipping around the bowl. The cold, cold mouth was wrapped around him again. Instead of making him withdraw, the sensations shot through him, made him arch up and into Sherlock. He tried not to thrust too hard, but he was not in control any more. Just as he felt he couldn't hang on any longer, the mouth left and he shook and began panting, trying not to come too soon. He waited, once again as the darkness pressed onto his eyes. Light fingers then tickled and nails swiped up and down his skin, made him shiver. He was beginning to think he'd lose his mind as his imagination took over, wondering what Sherlock would do next.

Then, the sensation he had been waiting for, anticipated since this began. A tender probing finger, feather light, began to tease and entice. He cried out when a finger was slipped in, crooked and brushed against his prostrate. Another finger soon joined, stretching, pleasuring and then a third. He was soon begging and it wasn't long until Sherlock withdrew his fingers. A movement and The Voice in his ear. "Ready, John? I wish you could see yourself. You are so beautiful like this. Under me, stretched out, wanting and waiting. Undone. God, John. I could come just looking at you." John felt Sherlock's breath ghost along his neck and intothe spot where his shoulder and neck joined.

He felt long fingers twine themselves around his wrist and his hand was brought round and between their writhing bodies to touch Sherlock. He heard the detective hiss as he wrapped around his length and began a slow, sweet slide up and down. Too soon, but not soon enough, Sherlock pulled away and those same hands carefully turned him over on to his front and lifted his hips into place. Cool hands railed over the muscles in his back, followed by a trail of kisses.

A thrust, the exquisite pain and pleasure of Sherlock as he entered into him, filled him, a groan against his back, the sensation of teeth nipping at his shoulder, an arm wrapped around his waist, a hand began to pump him in time with the thrusts. John joined in the noise and the movement, two bodies became one in synchronistic waves, the drive of biology, the motion of hunger, want, need, desire and love, of slick bodies moving as one, the build up of sweat and heat, but this time a heat that would be unbearable if taken away. Heat which moved through them, surrounded them. Salt and tears tasted the air, blood roared in their veins, fingers captured and entwined.

Then came the release and the crash, two voices shouted. John was carefully returned to lie on his back as Sherlock pulled out, leaving hollowness behind but it was quickly filled when breath and tongues mixed and mingled as Sherlock's mouth ravished John's, bit and sucked, before he collapsed across his panting frame.

Stillness.

Tired fingers carefully removed the cloth that covered John's eyes. He couldn't move, but an insistent hand pulled on his and dragged him to his feet. He was led to the bathroom, where the water was turned on and the two joined each other in the shower, cascading rivulets of blessedly cool water trailed over and down their skin. Sherlock took the bar of soap and lathered up. He ran firm, even strokes over John's taunt, defined muscles, caressed, washed him clean, while he slipped in kisses in between embraces. Sherlock left the shower first, toweled off enough not to drip, disappeared for a few moments and came back to guide John, still damp from the shower, back to their bed. He lay John on cool sheets, sheets that had come from the fridge and he climbed in beside his love.

The two tired figures lay supine in the dark bedroom. Sherlock ran light fingers up and down John's damp chest, still in the haze of incredible sex, relaxed and smug.

John turned onto his side, eyes heavy, barely open, but a sweet and quirky smile played upon his lips. Sherlock ran his fingers through the short hair. John blinked at him and yawned.

"Sherlock?" he asked softly.

"Yes, John?"

"Can we do that again tomorrow?"


End file.
